Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Mark Lecuona Feb 2012
Hey hey little Davy
Guess that was the last train
But you forgot to say goodbye to Jean
Now she’s crying herself to sleep
Who will kiss the homecoming queen?

Hey hey little Davy
We’re still the young generation
And this is what we have to say
We wanted to be just like you
Now you’ve gone away

Hey hey little Davy
We’re still messing around
Following in your footstep
We hopped on those stones
While we ate our breakfast

Hey hey little Davy
We loved you as children
We always were your believer
Now that we've seen your face
We'll never forget Saturday morning fever
Jae Elle Feb 2012
on my better days I am
a gypsy songbird
addicted to
dying my hair unnatural
colors
wearing too much
jewelry
& swaying my hips to the
Counting Crows or
Queens of the Stone Age

on my scarier days I am
a modified hermit
addicted to
hard liquor and coffee
daydreaming about the things that
will never be mine
& blaring sad piano ballads
about rotten, undignified, but
true, true love

on my normal days
I am a mommy
my son will be a year old on
Sunday
& he is my entire soul
I am addicted to
his dimples
his laughter
& watching him sleep

if anyone were to
ever tell a tale of the
dear Latham girl, they would
have to say
"Well, didn't you know?
Davy Martin
saved his mama's life."
Tintin Jul 2013
I locked my beating heart in a dead man's chest
Finding safety underneath the sands
Fourteen years it remained buried far below
Yet somehow found it's way to your hands


With unconcerned plunges of your careless knife
Don't bother to watch my heart bleed
Soaking the base of the box; red and hot
Yet you merely day dream, walking sleep


I removed my heart from love's reckless hands
But pain; dull, fresh, endless is still felt
It should end now yet the sea i still roam
Trusting now in blackholes i never before dwelt


My unbalanced chest suffers an unliftable burden
As my heart's held 'ransom' by you
Love's cruel trick; i remain Davy Jones
With not even my broken heart, only a ship and crew
And the curse of the writer's block continues...
judy smith Nov 2015
Chelsy Davy looked slinky in a **** satin dress as she joined a host of celebrities at the VIP premier of Burberry's new Christmas advert tonight.

The 30-year-old braved the November cold with a thigh-high-split dress with a plunging neckline, and halterneck straps, that showed off her toned arms and shoulders.

Prince Harry's old flame joined some of the biggest and best British names including Naomi Campbell, Rosie Huntington-Whitely and Romeo Beckham at the fashion house's flagship store in Regent Street.

Although Chelsey doesn't star in the Burberry ad campaign like many of the other guests, she used the opportunity to show off her style credentials in a silky black dress which showed off her figure.

Accessorising with a gold necklace, rings and charm bracelets, and a chain-mail edged envelope clutch, she did bring a leather jacket, but carried it with her bag despite the winter weather.

Chelsey had stiff competition in the **** stakes though, with Rosie Huntington-Whiteley dazzling in a provocative ensemble.

The model, who does star in Burberry's festive film, showed off her impressive figure in a skimpy satin body, which she teamed with a semi-sheer skirt and a pair of thigh-high suede boots.

Rosie teased her hair into loose waves and sported simple make up, so it didn't detract from her captivating outfit.

Her campaign co-star Naomi Campbell opted for an all-pink outfit - arriving in a rose suede jacket showing off a slither of her berry dress underneath.

And of course the model of the moment Romeo Beckham was on hand to celebrate his appearance in the film too.

The 13-year-old looked incredibly dapper in a navy suit with a matching skirt and tie as well as a polka dot Burberry printed scarf.

Downton Abbey's Michelle Dockery was one of the first of the cast to arrive and made her entrance wearing Burberry of course.

The 33-year-old actress was sporting a chic plum coat, simple black jeans and a pale pink jumper for the evening.

The campaign which was shot by Mario Testino and celebrates the 15th anniversary of Billy Elliot with an all British cast and begins with original footage from the 2000 film, as well as the original soundtrack - ‘Cosmic Dancer’ by T Rex - by permission of Working Title.

World-renowned photographer, Mario, also shot a separate stills campaign featuring Romeo, Naomi, Rosie, and James that will run across print and digital titles.

Speaking about the campaign, Christopher Bailey said: 'Billy Elliot is an incredible film full of so much joy and energy, so it was a real thrill and a great honour to be able to celebrate its 15 year anniversary through our Festive campaign.

'It was also a huge privilege to work with such amazing and iconic British talent – the cast are quite simply some of the biggest names in film, music and fashion and it was so much fun working with them all to make this special film.'

Burberry will no doubt be hoping for a boost thanks to Romeo Beckham.

At the start of the year, it was reported that thanks to his last Burberry Christmas advert, sales of the brand's classic £1,500 trench coats shot up a substantial 10 per cent.

The fashion label credited the then 12-year-old son of David and Victoria Beckham for its rise in sales in the US, Europe and the Middle East after he starred in their Christmas advert last year.

The advert, which was first released in November, was the first ever Christmas campaign for Burberry and starred Romeo alongside 50 dancers all clad in the beige trench coats.

Such was his popularity in the film - called From London With Love - that it was watched nine million times after being released.

The original production of Billy Elliot established a legacy of charitable support for the local community of Easington, County Durham where the film is set.

Inspired by this, Burberry is making a donation of £500,000 to be split between two charities, Place2Be and the County Durham Community Foundation, that have projects focusing on reducing barriers to education, training and employment in the local area. This donation is made in recognition of each artists' participation in the campaign.

read more:www.marieaustralia.com/red-carpet-celebrity-dresses

www.marieaustralia.com/cheap-formal-dresses
Lyn-Purcell Oct 2017
Here, I sail to regions unknown.
On the tides of bliss, you are shown.
Your sweet strokes can calm my heart.
As fear and pain depart.

How the sun is dim to your smile.
West winds blow as I dream of the Isle.
For one day, we will lock our hands.
Upon the golden sands...

Writhe and roar! Sea and tempest grow!
Rise, my Dutchman! Rock to and fro!
Set the sails and man all the helms!
Postpone our journey's end.

Death ascends upon the throne.
As wild as I am alone.
Come to the sea, and cut through the waves.
Hurry to your watery grave!

And my love, who can't be restrained.
I will vow that I'll make you pay!
Drag them, bind them, take their souls!
And hear the death bell toll!

For my love, I gave you my heart.
So that we will never part.
Forever you were my always.
I'll set the sea ablaze.

How I've dreamed we'd meet on the lands.
Words of love have crumbled to sand.
For years, I drown with misery.
I want my liberty...

Unlike you, my heart isn't chained.
Hear my *****, feel my pain!
Lost and cold, my heart knows no rest!
Within this dead man's chest...
Tweaked the poem a bit and added an extra section.
PoTC: DMC is one of my alltime favourite films and as I said before,
I'm obsessed with Davy Jones' Lullaby!

© Poem by Lyn-Purcell
© Song by Hans Zimmer. Owned by Disney.
Terry O'Leary Feb 2014
The tale below was carved one night
upon the stone, by candlelight
...most won’t believe, but some just might
.........most won’t believe, but some just might



                         Preface

An angel smiled, though teary eyed,
when James made Beth his lovely bride
...their bodies bound, their spirits tied
.........their bodies bound, their spirits tied

Upon her hand, a shimmer shone,
as bright as blood, a ruby stone
...and brighter still, as love has grown
.........and brighter still, as love has grown

Soon James was sent to man a sail
so Beth removed her wedding veil
...her eyes were moist, her face was pale
.........her eyes were moist, her face was pale

“Well, I’ll be here when you return”
said Beth to James, who kissed in turn
...a kiss that made her body burn
.........a kiss that made her body burn



                         BETH’S TALE

1.              The Dream

One night, within a dream deformed,
the cawing of a crow informed
“...the ship was struck where winter stormed
.........the ship was struck where winter stormed

Midst winds and waves the thunder boomed,
the Ship of Death was surely doomed
...the surf engulfed, the sea entombed
.........the surf engulfed, the sea entombed

Your James… deceived by Davy Jones!
With spirit freed, his flesh and bones
...now rest beneath the ashen stones
.........now rest beneath the ashen stones”



2.               The Quest

Awoken by the ebon wight
and beckoned by the baneful bight
...I left before the morning light
.........I left before the morning light

Throughout the realm I rode a roan
until, in time, I reached the stone
...where shades in dreams of darkness groan
.........where shades in dreams of darkness groan

While skipping up and down the sky
a missing moonbeam mocked my eye
...enough to make a swallow cry
.........enough to make a swallow cry

For someone stole a star or two
and something else that fate withdrew -
...my jewel of joy, my James Bijou  
.........my jewel of joy, my James Bijou

The shadows of the evening swelled
where demons of the dusk had dwelled
...and in the far, a vesper knelled
.........and in the far, a vesper knelled

The stone, beneath the sky, stood cold -
between the runes, a vapour strolled
...a cloak of fleecy fog consoled
.........a cloak of fleecy fog consoled

A raven on a branch, enthroned,
her wings waved once, a wail intoned
...beyond the bay, a banshee moaned
.........beyond the bay, a banshee moaned

I lay beside the stone, his bride,
I lay beside the stone and cried
...but were it I, instead, that died
.........but were it I, instead, that died

The rainbow of the moon fell dim,
a midnight swan soon ceased to swim
...as if to hide all hint of him
.........as if to hide all hint of him

Between the willows in the swale
bewailed a bird, a nightingale
...which left me faint, my body frail
.........which left me faint, my body frail



3.              Contact

I felt him breathe within a breeze
responding to my anguished pleas
...and leaves blew by abandoned trees
.........and leaves blew by abandoned trees

“Eternal love, my darling Beth”
enshrined within his final breath
...re-echoed from the Ship of Death
.........re-echoed from the Ship of Death

The stone lit up a ruby sheen
and clouds were kindled crystalline
...with consequences, unforeseen
.........with consequences, unforeseen

Above, the wretched raven soared
to where the Ship of Death’d been moored
...below, the icy ocean roared
.........below, the icy ocean roared



4.               Release

I’m joined with James beneath the stone,
and twixt the stars our souls are sown
...for nevermore to be alone
.........for nevermore to be alone



                         Epilogue
That night the wayward winds were weird,
the Ship of Death had disappeared
...coyotes called and mortals feared
.........coyotes called and mortals feared

At dusk, the craven shadows crawled,
at dawn, the winds of mourning called
...upon the stone two names were scrawled
.........upon the stone two names were scrawled

The raven sits, with wings outspread,
atop the stone which shades the dead
...it sometimes shimmers ruby red
.........it sometimes shimmers ruby red



                         Epitaph
Between the sounds, where silence seeps,
their love lives on and never sleeps
...and yet, the weeping willow weeps
.........and yet, the weeping willow weeps
Nick Strong Aug 2015
Rising from the sand at low tide,
The shipwreck’s spars, brown wet, decaying
Reaching like skeletal fingers, grasping
For one last piece of the breaking daylight
Tentacles of seaweed, woven
Wrapped around decaying planks
Anchoring it firmly
To Davy Jones’ Locker
Barnacle encrusted planks
Lie twisted, turned, unnatural
Frozen in a final plea of mercy
Before white tipped monsters
Crashed across the bow,
Splitting,  tearing masts
Sending it to the murky depths
Written after viewing a ships carcass beneath the waves
K M May 2015
I am looking at this plastic table cloth with longing
It's reminding me of the surface of the ocean
in the moonlight
obviously it's summertime in my thoughts
and the sand is cold
my feet are hot
I'm going to go run into the surf
the sea is so black and sparkling
I am solitary
and so is it
and we are solitary together at the same time
so we are one
and each other's companion for the night
Ocean
I like to watch you even at a distance from the lifeguard's chair
and behold your magic
And our relationship is passionate and enduring
and you will keep me forever
rocking my distraught mind
just like a ship
on a wave
you are making me feel all
lazy and hazy
I think I love you
I think
we belong together
all by ourselves in the presence of one another
Because we are alike
Because you're so blue in the day
and so black at night
Jacob Ciciora Mar 2019
I met a salty sailor,
Smokin' a pipe on a Boston Whaler
He said, "Boy do you know...
If a Coastie dies, where does he go?"
"He goes to Davy Jones!
But don't worry,
He's not alone!"
The salty sailor cleared his throat,
Then pushed me hard off his boat.
There I sank beneath the waves,
The white caps pushed me to my grave.
There I was in the locker,
Davy said, "report to muster!"
Then I saw my BMC,
He said, "boy come drink with me!"
We were all without a bother,
Drinking and fightin with each other!
He sat all alone, drinking jim beam and coke

Looking out as the waves crashed ashore

He kept to himself, drinking jim beam and coke

As the storm winds would batter the door

He'd only come in when the weather was rough

Sitting alone, drinking Jim Beam and coke

Looking out at the waves never saying a word

Just this man and his Jim Beam and coke

He'd lived all his life in this sea faring town

Working ships from the time he was ten

He grew up real fast on the high roiling seas

Doing work that was best left for men

His father had run a small fleet of five

Chasing cod up the Grand Banks each year

But as cod stocks declined and the fishing died out

His old man sold off his old gear

One boat was left, a shrimper, it was

It was christened the "Bain of my Life"

It was a jab at his job, but as his dad liked to say

"I named the **** boat for me wife!"

They ran this old boat till the paint was worn off

Fixing nets, running traps and old lines

Catching shrimp, heading home....and time after time

Getting soaked in the stormy old brine

He sat in the bar looking out as the waves

Grew and intensified more

With his Jim Beam and Coke, looking out to the sea

And dried peanut shells crushed on the floor

When the fair weather came, he was never about

He was down by the ships holding court

For as sea farers go and tellers of tale

He was the best one they had in this port

He told of the time that their boat had been hit

By a wave twice as tall as the ship

But his dad kept her up, and they only lost pots

And the "Bain" proved she couldn't be flipped

On fair weather days he would  start out his day

At the Church of the Maritime Witch

It was a small little bar, serving breakfast till ten

And the bartender there was a *****

At least that's his word to describe Betty Jean

He would call her this name and then grin

For he'd known  Betty Jean for his whole ****** life

She was this old seafarers sister, his twin

She'd run the old bar for about 40 years

Took it on when she lost on a bet

She 's been there ever since and she won't tell a soul

How she lost and why she's never left yet

But, on days like today, she'd shut down the bar

Batten windows and hope for the best

For with 90 knot winds and just plywood and nails

Her bar would be put through a test

So he'd come up here drinking Jim Beam and coke

Watching out to the sea past the break

He watch for the ships coming in from the storm

Seeing just how much sea  they could take

He'd name 40 men who he knew lost their lives

Facing death on the water to fish

But there only was one for  who he'd give up his place

and that was his eternal wish

His son was lost out on the bubbling sea, chasing cod

When they knew there were few

He was out on a ship that was captained by him

and a small, inexperienced crew

His son was swept off by a swell straight from hell

It was two miles long if an inch

He was working the nets when the rogue wave did hi

ttaking his son, two pots and a winch

He'd spent fifteen years searching daily for him

His body had never been found

Davy Jones held it fast in the depths of the sea

To which his sons soul forever was bound

He gave up his search and he never went back

Never fished for a shrimp or a cod

He'd just sit on the dock watching out at the waves

Praying silently this prayer to God

"Please give me my son, so I can bury him whole"

"Let him surface so he can find peace"

"I only ask this, for my sister and me"

"And for his daughter, my dear little niece"

"We've waited for years for a sign...even small"

"Just to show us that your job is done"

"I'll never go out on the water again"

"Regardless of how strong they run"

"I ask you dear Lord, for his body to see"

"So we can consecrate him back to the earth"

"This is all I ask, and I will ask no more"

"Just how much is my dear son's life worth"

With an amen and a smoke to finish it off

He'd head back to his sisters to sit

He'd drink Jim Beam and coke till "the *****" sent him home

With a hug and a kis and a "***"!

But on days like today he'd watch waves crash ashore

Hoping no more were lost to the sea

Drinking Jim Beam and coke, sittling all on his own

Wishing God would set his son free

If you're down by the docks when the weather is fine

Look for him and he'll tell you a tale

But don't ask about that terrible night

When he lost his young son to a swale
Jack Staub Mar 2014
Time stopped. I had no bearing as to who, where, or what I was. All that was in my presence was the high, rolling desert painted orange with that odd sand-mud that he called “Geonosian rock;” his ebbing backpack being pulled from his shoulder, just like the ocean tide; his canteen bottle, lidless, slipping out of the rear pocket and whetting the sand with the boy’s quickly diminishing water supply; and the boy, Davy, being torn helplessly from safety by the cool, malevolent hands of gravity, and into the crevasse.
Reaching out desperately for the boy’s damp, warm hands, I grab a hold just in time—to consciousness, as he plummets and I stare wondrously; dumbfounded by my own ineptness in rational thinking. the boy is gone. Davy, my own stepson, my ******* child whom I would do anything for to prove my worth to his mother, Mary, who was the token to happiness with a new family, was ripped from my grasp, and eaten by the New Mexican terrain. So I delved after him.
Frisk Jan 2014
January brought cold weather, as well as a igloo shaped as home
fabricating a sort of warmth in a desiccated environment, it's a
sandpaper type coarse tip toe around the tacks scattered on the
floor type cold, childishly misplaced and a childish ignorance.
February brought one of the purest primrose flowers out of the
field, stuck in drought drowning in murky waters, covered in
dirt, and i washed away the dirt marks that i recall, was all over
you. It's a sobering feeling to find someone who completes you.
March brought lightning, but clouds shook the strikes away into
Davy Jones locker collected in mason jars, but lightning is not a
controlling virus. It doesn't hide it's burn marks or it's scars left
on vulnerable bodies that are at their tallest height, their peak.
April caused me to be a narcissistic but raucous child, enjoying
the effulgence showered on me, as well as the rain that poured.
This smile was stuck climbing to my ears, and I let life take the
rains as I stayed acquiesce to my worries. When it rains, it pours.
May brought a forest of doubt, growing introverted and placing
dynamite in my path, these mirrors won't show me anything but
the truth, anathema's bile spilled onto the yellow brick road and
I was dragged along for the unfortunate ride constantly mocked.
June was the end of the road and the start of a new and brighter
one, like a window flying open with all of my hopes and dreams
being carried by owls. My algorithm is being solved, one step up
without a tyrant. I'm going to dissociate myself from everyone.
July let the mirage give in, five years of desire to visit arizona
with it's rusty colored mountains and spiky tumbleweeds
sprawling hope back into my lungs that there is bandages
for the wound imprinted on my heart back in soggy April.
August showed me that it smells like burnt hair here, but the
good kind, if it makes sense, with hot air brushing against
my skin twirling with excitement that I've arrived, bringing
a bit of Texas with it. I've never been more happy to see rain.
September introduced me to jets at seven in the morning and
trains at ten, mountains that are almost an optical illusion, like
cardboard standups I could push over, and feelings of a lost friend
brought back after glancing back at my ex best friend of five years.
October was dressing up as my favorite movie character, kids
are quoting the movie as we fill our backpacks with dozens of
candy bars and filling me with the fresh october air and freedom.
Texas never provided that comfort. It's so real and overwhelming.
November was the interlude, 1,000 miles back to Texas brought
melancholy but i unraveled my roots back to the Greyhound,
an akin aching grandmother I brought back to her feet, as well
as got back to my feet when i slammed on my brakes and hit hope.
December brought me slamming my feet back onto the ground
when i left her walking home alone, but it taught me to love hard
and let go when you're given up on, that Christmas is all about
soft piano playing corny songs that are meant to bring you cheer.
Today brought me here.

- kra
TC Mar 2013
Calcified age lines,
driftwood was once a shiny ship:
hallowed bow, curved spine, dead.

Jaundiced and gaunt didn’t appear
until after the fact,
break a bottle on its back
because I'm facedown,
dead drunk, waves of saliva breaking
desperately against the asphalt.
Tree branches grappling together in the wind
are handsome
like a handshake
in a bad poem
but they're just trees, just wood.
I am slowburning like an all natural cigarette.

Jaunt through the woods. Drinking spot.
Acrid friends.
Warm bonfire, I want it to be more like a movie.  
Davy Jones my sorrows. Sitting on a log.
Rock bottom and I’m sitting on a log.
Weird girl comes over, she’s artsy and dyslexic.
I hate that word. Artsy. *******.
She asks if I’m okay and I say yeah.

At home,
exhume pillowcase from *****,
futon forget-me-nots
some thick haired little boy
had curled up to die inside;

Post embrace.
Crashed; a solemnly sinking ship captain
with skin peeling like lottery tickets
too leather-faced to shout anything but
TEN THOUSAND THUNDERING TYPHOONS
as he goes down
with his cracked nymphal exoskeleton
wipes the fire off his brow
he is burning like an all natural cigarette
but phoenixes are not legends
they are metaphors,
and that is enough difference for me.

The sea is salty and stinging
and they say
a smooth one
never made a skillful sailor
but you cannot build a ship
out of driftwood,
just watch one deteriorate into it.

Maybe that’s the point.

For three years,
I found myself in an oozing freefall
base jumping as I carved through the air
like an anchor
parachute made of somber bottle twist
carved cork and microscope slide,
salt stained shoes,
brackish eyes
distort flashes of organic sunlight
thick necked forays into begging for fare
at deserted train stations
lashed out at friends with bullwhip arms
I couldn’t reach my own back
freefalling, base camp
welling up to greet me
from the depths of a tar pit
but the thing about rock bottoms is:
if they don’t destroy you
they give you something solid to stand on.

And if you leap back up, spread eagle
Like a petrified starfish, swim through that tar pit
that is ocean, the warm hovel of under the covers,
Bonfire, whiskey in the back of an old sailors throat,
All natural cigarette,
You can be born again. I promise.

Depression is not sadness, it is the absence of hope
And it is numb. Reduces us to ashes and drowns us all at once.
But it waxes and it wanes, burns itself out if you let it.

And from that flame, scattered splinters in the ocean,
The shedding of my cracked, nymphal exoskeleton,
I understood the impermanence and necessity of flailing tendrils
White hot curling up a mainmast like a handshake
Wet flesh in the womb of moment between sleep and wake,
Breath slipping away like low tide
Gasping for air until it’s easier to ****
Oxygen out of the saltwater in your lungs
Pain killed a boy and made a man

Watch a phoenix **** a baptism
Violently conjure steam into existence
Just for it to disappear, watch them smile.
You’ll understand.
I

I see the boys of summer in their ruin
Lay the gold tithings barren,
Setting no store by harvest, freeze the soils;
There in their heat the winter floods
Of frozen loves they fetch their girls,
And drown the cargoed apples in their tides.

These boys of light are curdlers in their folly,
Sour the boiling honey;
The jacks of frost they finger in the hives;
There in the sun the frigid threads
Of doubt and dark they feed their nerves;
The signal moon is zero in their voids.

I see the summer children in their mothers
Split up the brawned womb's weathers,
Divide the night and day with fairy thumbs;
There in the deep with quartered shades
Of sun and moon they paint their dams
As sunlight paints the shelling of their heads.

I see that from these boys shall men of nothing
Stature by seedy shifting,
Or lame the air with leaping from its hearts;
There from their hearts the dogdayed pulse
Of love and light bursts in their throats.
O see the pulse of summer in the ice.

II

But seasons must be challenged or they totter
Into a chiming quarter
Where, punctual as death, we ring the stars;
There, in his night, the black-tongued bells
The sleepy man of winter pulls,
Nor blows back moon-and-midnight as she blows.

We are the dark derniers let us summon
Death from a summer woman,
A muscling life from lovers in their cramp
From the fair dead who flush the sea
The bright-eyed worm on Davy's lamp
And from the planted womb the man of straw.

We summer boys in this four-winded spinning,
Green of the seaweeds' iron
Hold up the noisy sea and drop her birds,
Pick the world's ball of wave and froth
To choke the deserts with her tides,
And comb the county gardens for a wreath.

In spring we cross our foreheads with the holly,
Heigh ** the blood and berry,
And nail the merry squires to the trees;
Here love's damp muscle dries and dies
Here break a kiss in no love's quarry,
O see the poles of promise in the boys.

III

I see you boys of summer in your ruin.
Man in his maggots barren.
And boys are full and foreign to the pouch.
I am the man your father was.
We are the sons of flint and pitch.
O see the poles are kissing as they cross.
Edna Sweetlove Dec 2014
People think that Dublin, Ireland's fair capital city
Is a place of merriment, overflowing with craic and whiskey,
Whose narrow streets are filled with poets and singers and also
Pretty girls with wheelbarrows selling cockles and mussels;
A city redolent with history, whose gutters run with half-digested Guinness
After closing time, and the drinkers have been hurled into the gutter
By jovial bouncers who can recite "Ulysses" from start to finish
From memory, and where the Liffey, sweet Anna Liffey, flows peacefully,
With only an occasional splash when a pedestrian topples gaily in.
                  
But there is a darker side to famous Baile Atha Cliath, oh yes,
And the following anecdote is a sad but true indictment of the evil,
The omnipresent evil, which lurks in the black soul of the city.
I was trolling along the banks of the old Royal Canal one summer's evening
With my drinking companion, my Afro cousin, Black Paddy McSpigot,
Pausing only to glance briefly at the copulating couples on the towpath
(We were slightly amused by the small crowd watching one couple
who were engaged in the athletic congress of the ****-backed whale
underneath the bridge by Rose Street, a favourite spot for young lovers),
When a terrible shriek rent the air and a horde of renegade drunken nuns
Poured out of a late night underground folk-music drinking den
(the hugely amplified noise of the massed uilléan pipes was deafening
and had probably driven the poor dears into a religious frenzy).

Seeing Black Paddy, and mistaking his gay rendition of "Skibereen"
For an excerpt from the Satanic Mass, they yelled out polyphonically
"Tis the divil himself, so it is, an' all, an' all, let's get the focker",
And without further ado they leaped on him and ripped him to shreds,
Hurling lumps of his poor, poor body into the crocodile infested canal,
Where they were immediately masticated by the terrifying reptiles
(the mighty creatures had been stolen from the Zoological Gardens
by a group of drunken Animal Rights campaigners out on a ******,
and were the toast of the town in every gay bar in the vibrant city).
I cowered in terror at the horrific spectacle, thanking my lucky stars
I was wearing my archibishop's fancy dress uniform that evening
(it was the only way to jump the queue to get into Davy Byrne's Bar).
Dear God, I'll not visit the dear Emerald Isle again in a hurry, to be sure.
L B Apr 2018
Down the ******--
Adventures of Feral Children

If there has to be a gate, I suppose I have always had my own theory that “The ******” was one of those places through which God pulled Paradise inside out.  I was always wandering there, pretending-- playing sometimes or searching for something-- the exact moment that spring begins, or the place of my secret dwelling where I was in charge, where I was queen.  Always hoping for the constant surprise of beauty, a lady slipper-- stunning last year's leaves, a meadow of white violets-- May snow on green?  Or was the startle of of seeing my first scarlet tanager in the saplings-- still too cold for leaves?

To the uninitiated The ****** was nothing more than the meaning of its name, a bending tube of woods with a brook tracing along it-- like snake's spine.

Not a practical place for a housing development, it had an ether of history as some “Valentine Park” and playground, and I guess that was true, judging from the ruins of bridges, stone half-penny steps, and the overgrown lima-bean shaped pool.  Huge, stone block stairs had faced each other, lining the entrance of a spring-- a fountain once, covered now with moss.  It loomed at dusk like an ancient temple.  Even the course of the brook had been maintained by giant, redstone slabs-- long-since tumbled in the wake of hurricanes whose names I've forgotten....

...Like a snake's spine... always there for a thousand years, wearing its steep banks ever-deeper into the guts of city till oaks, hemlocks and white pines became sentinel giants, far taller and older than their genes had ever intended.  In the war for sunlight, they through up an unwitting wall against all-- but the most daring encroachments...

...Like say-- like say half-grown people, cigarette butts, broken bottles, and underground “forts” with their smells of stale beer and musty clothes, old mattresses-- echos of giggling, the aura of explored forbiddens.  To us who knew her, The ****** could outlive remembrance but not rumor.  Like an old graveyard or an abandoned house, it was the place to go with our bags of candy, pea-shooters, and fire crackers!  We'd go there to fake-smoke punks-- we either were or wanted to be--
  
Somebody's parents always leaving their lights around....

We came there to delve into our made-up mysteries, like the one about that antique car that had rusted in “The Swamp” for centuries!  ...that someone's dead cousin drove off The ******'s cliff side one night... drunk as a skunk!  ...right where The Diamond Match's got this big pipe that spews all that gray **** into the brook! ...right where we used to swim and play on the hottest days since we couldn't use the city's Paddle Pond (folks were scared of polio in those days), so we played at “The Pipe” --making “Indian pottery” with the neighbors,  Gary, Davy, Shelley, and Sandy.  Red clay cups and ashtrays on red hot afternoons-- making wild polluted Indians of Jew and Irish kids alike.

Now I almost forgot.... I was telling you about that antique car-- the one some cousin of Ross was supposed to 'ave driven right off the cliff into the swamp and died... Well... His ghost still lurks there! ...and goes into 'iz cousin's body-- Ross, that is....  Let me tell ya!  Ross could sure mess up an afternoon's good time by his appearance!
                                          __­__

  
But The ****** wasn't just for spooks-- not if you were into spraying girls with rusted cans of rotten Reddi Whip, kicking skunk cabbage (same effect), or finding frogs eggs under lily pads,  Gary even discovered those curious old Italians picking water cress barefoot in The Frog Pond.  Intensely curious, he was not afraid of their funny speech and ways.  He had gallon cans and pickle jars for raising pollywogs-- so he was on a mission.  But best of all, Gary had a backyard that overhung The ******'s swamp!  We could even view The Pipe hurling runoff ten feet out into the basin!  Our aberrant Niagara after a good storm.

Then there was the time that Tarzan swing just appeared!-- Like one of those convenient vines in the jungle movies!  It hung from a pine on one of The ******'s sheer sides, and was capable-- when wrapped around the trunk and given a running start, of providing one helluva-swooping-good ride-- out over the brook, into the sunlight and back-- with a thousand terrifying variations.  Took me a while to work-up my nerve-- a little longer to be really fine!

Tommy Gireaux fell and broke his arm.  Our swing was nothing but a stump of rope next day.  Twenty feet up, dangling fun, cut off and left-- to remembrance of times so real Tarzan made personal appearances!

______
Of course, there's more to this.  Our feral band of explorers discovers the soggy Playboys and gets sidetracked from their mission to find  "The Pine Cathedral" and where The ****** actually ends.  Ross shows up.

Not a fiction...not a fiction.

I am totally frustrated by my efforts to use and delete italics and bold print.  Why can't this site just post them as they appear in the writing???   How hard can that be?
The clouds hid the red sky that day
Amid the wind and rain
No red sky meant no sailors warning
The waves broke high and hard
They passed the breakers and the kegs
They missed the red sky morning

The ships out on the water
From the shore to the Grand Banks
Were helpless in the coming storm
No choice to turn and run
The best bet was stay put
There was no port to get warm

The skies were filled with nothingness
the clouds like a sharks eye
Shades of black were all they saw
The icy waves of winter
Broke the calm of the early morn
For red sky in the morning is an unwritten sailors law

The Captain closed the bar down
On the Digby ferry crossing
The doors were being opened by each wave
They couldn't see the white caps
Only sky and see was all
And the souls he had to save

There were fifteen boats in transit
When the storm came bearing down
Most were halfway home or so
Now they all were stranded
In the journey between heaven and hell
Which direction they were headed only God would know

Turn sideways and you'd flip it
Just sit still and you were dead
You had to ride the water hellish ride
Hatches all were battened
Windows sealed and doors shut tight
Sailors tried to stay inside

Water spouts were forming
Off the stern and then the port
Navigate the safest spot and keep low
The door to Davy Jones' locker
Was opened and ready to accept
Any boat who made the choice to venture down below

On shore the coast guard were all scrambled
Planes were sent out just in case
More to recover than to save
Families awaited word by radio
The lines from all the ships were down
Some lost to a watery grave

Each year the ocean opens up
Mother Nature takes some back
It's just the circle of life at sea
Prayers are said at the Mariners Hall
Bells are rung for the dead
The sailors soul belongs to the water and it never can be free

Are you one that lives on water?
You know one day your luck will end
You knew this fact from the start
Sailors know the sea's a minefield
It's a war with God each day
You have to fight with all your heart
aar505n Aug 2014
Relationship are rough,
sailin’ the ever changin’ tides of emotion.
They don’t come ‘bout easy,
they require a lot of hard work!
Some days be jolly!
But sometime things don’t go yer way.
Some days there’s a change in the wind,
a change in the current,
that goes against the riggins’ o’ yer ship
an’ ye struggle,
but that doesn’t mean yer ship is sinkin’!
Don’t walk the plank now,
just ‘cause the imminent Kraken
of breakup and doubt
is in hot pursuit o’ yer vessel!
Like Dido,
ye won’t be goin’ down with this ship,
there’ll be no white flag!
Are ye really going to let some bombastic baboons pillage yer lass?
No yer not!
Yer goin’ to drop yer anchor
an' battle for that nigh uncatchable ship.
But if ye be captured,
a faith worse than Davy Jones' Locker,
an' they say ‘walk the plank’
then you’ll walk that plank,
but ye’ll cross the seven seas to meet them again!
Storms they pass,
with lil' damage,
if ye just brace and stick it out
'Cos for the right ship,
ye do anythin'
This is an extract from a short play about retired pirates that own a cash for gold shop written by myself and my friend Roisin.
Here, Alf, a pirate, is giving relationship advice to a sad and broken hearted Customer.
Copious amounts of lava
seeping over the table
steaming mugs of java
cutting off the cable.

Rara Avis is a Latin term
no sneakers for me today
eaten by the Conqueror Worm
during the month of May.

******* drugs
and Sugar Twin
white punk thugs
chasing Rin-Tin-Tin.

Rainbows of black
babies howling out loud
guerilla attacks
a huge raver crowd.

Windshield wipers
with ribbons attached
little sticky diapers
and gates made of thatch.

Alphagetti monsters
smoking a jay
card-carrying punsters
greasy burgers on a tray.

Cute cotton *******
on lithe little nymphs
disappearing shanties
owned by drugged-up pimps.

Rhymes gone bad
a little cash in my pocket
hanging at the pad
and watching Davy Crockett.

People eating doughnuts
***** up on the beaches
hips that do the low strut
and blood ******* leeches.

It all comes down
to a single final thought:
was the Queen's big crown
really traded for a ***?
© 2011  J.J.W. Coyle
The bar was deserted
But for The Captain and me
I was tending the bar
He was watching the sea
The North Wind was 'a howlin'
As the door opened wide
It was The North Wind just checkin'
To see who's inside

The Captain, was quiet looking out at the sea
He said on days like today, that is no place to be
She'll swallow you whole
Take your ship in one gulp
Crush all your riggings
And make the rest into pulp
When she opens her maw
The Sea don't care who
Is there for the taking
It's just what she do

I ventured on over
A fresh glass, with some ice
He said "what took you?"
I said ..."now, be nice"
"With weather like this"
"There's leaks front and back"
"And if I don't mop them up"
"Then I will get the sack"

He smiled as he drank up
One gulp and all done
He used to come here
With his grandson and son
But, that story is longer
And a good one to know
But, today, t'was just him
And he was rarin' to go

"The Sea is a monster, you can be sure of that"
"That's a fact I am saying, as sure as I'm sat"
"She'll swat you down hard, like a little old gnat"
"And to her it'll be nothing more than a pat"
"To Davy Jones Locker, she'll take you today"
"And once you are down there, in the locker you'll stay"
"A witch like the Ocean, she doesn't half play"
"When the water starts talking....you hear what she say!!!"

He swirled round the cubes
Made a noise, looked my way
I was already pouring
His fifth of the day
"Barkeep, be wary"
"The wind is the start"
"It's the voice of the water"
"It'll sure break your heart"
"She'll take what you give her"
"And she'll return you squat"
"Like a big old hard game"
"Of 'x's and noughts"
"She's a powerful mistress"
"And fickle as well"
"But, be on her today"
"And she'll take you to hell"

We sat watching closely
As the storm rattled glass
We both were quite nervous
And we hoped it would pass
The storm  came in early
Two weeks 'fore the season
And we knew out today
That the water'd be freezin'
The Captain dozed off
Facing out to the sea
There was now just the storm
A sleeping Captain....and me.
Curt A Rivard Sr Nov 2013
Silently standing in formation as your feet are hanging overboard
A burial at sea is an honor and now it is your much deserved reward.
USS. Ships slowly coming to a halt many nautical miles off the coast
Today is a beautiful day and you’re the decorated remembered host.
As for him, when his ship rolled up upon Saigon's shore
he received many campaign stars for his chest while serving his tour.
Clanging medals as he still now walks all about and right from the start
He told me he was to fast to get caught and in return,
he smiled at me because he never did receive a purple heart.
The stars and stripes are now starting to swirl into one and another
contorting colors now begin to weep while flying at half-mast
Squeezing triggers the firing party’s rifle’s now begin to blast.
As you’re lying there peacefully and in your "Aurora" stainless steel bed
A special scripture is read and prayers are then said.
Tilting the platform so you slide off and fall into the deep ocean
with twenty holes two inch in diameter
and one hundred and fifty pound bags of sand hidden at your feet
when you get to the bottom, Davy Jones, you will then meet
till then you’re heading to the floor traveling there
like always, in slow motion.

(SirCARSr. 11-30-13)
Distant shadows,
Traveling into the absence of light.
Illuminating a pathway of sorrow,
Imagining the beauty of Helen’s sight.

Diving into the abyss,
Searching for lost remains.
Encountering a series of melancholic words,
Reliving one's past fate.

Salvaging sunken letters,
Written in Cephalopod ink.
Subsiding into Davy Jones' locker,
In quest of the skeleton key.

Pursuing the Sirens voice,
Inducing a tidal wave.
Awakening to disillusion,
Anchoring hope to reality once again.

By: Michael M. De La Fuente
The Skeleton Key is a symbolic interpretation of a long lost love dreamed about last night. You will find plenty of symbolisms derived from Greek Mythology and metaphoric expressions within every line. My interpretation may be seen below for those who wish to follow the original meaning of the poem. Hope you enjoy it. Without further ado:

Distant shadows:
– Glimpsing flashbacks of her pleasant sight

Traveling into the absence of light:
– Nostalgic memories fading into darkness

Illuminating a pathway of sorrow:
– Igniting a yearning desire to be with her once more

Imagining the beauty of Helen’s sight:
– Symbolically comparing her beauty to Helen, the Queen of Laconia, who was considered the most beautiful woman in the world in Greek Mythology

Diving into the abyss:
- Taking a leap of faith into love once again

Searching for lost remains:
- Hoping to rekindle the long lost flame

Encountering a series of melancholic words:
– Finding nothing more than sadness and grief, instilled pain

Reliving one's past fate:
– Undergoing the same heartache once again

Salvaging sunken letters:
– Recollecting the unparalleled memories spent together

Written in Cephalopod ink:
– Metaphorically comparing the pen’s ink to the thick black ink that an octopus ejects to confound attackers. Insinuating that each word was written as a method to escape.  

Subsiding into Davy Jones' locker:
– Falling into the realm of darkness; hitting rock bottom

In quest of the skeleton key:
– Symbolically searching for new possibilities to alter the tragic outcome

Pursuing the Sirens voice:
– Metaphorically comparing the enchanting voice of the Sirens from Greek Mythology to the hypnotizing nature of her seductive voice

Inducing a tidal wave:
– Stimulating the reticent heart

Awakening to disillusion:
– Awakening to realize that it was just a lucid dream

Anchoring hope to reality once again:
– Symbolically indicating the conveyance of hope from one realm to another
In a glass bottomed boat
I will float far away and
will look at the sea as
the fish look at me.

It depends on the lens I suppose,
heaven knows mine are scratched
by the fingernails of time, but
the boat sails at nine and
this tide I'm on is mine
so I'll be there.

A meeting with Neptune is
written,
coming soon
to a bay
near to you and another one
with Poseidon,
old Gods lining up to grab at my throat,
on the glass bottomed boat
all they can do
is look.
Dew drops sit patiently on the earth
My thoughts race, incomplete
without a story line.
What’s the difference between an animal
and a man, you ask?
Men can carry guns
The revolution falls short as the much anticipated
Apocalypse begins

Zombies moan and groan as their limbs
creak with their shuffling art.
They say zombies are the living dead
Why, you ask?
They’re dead on the inside.
Like Davy Jones, they’ve ripped their hearts out
and hid them away from the world.
I’ve met a zombie or few.
They inject sunburnt life into their veins;
They inhale the emotions they can’t convey
I see right through their drug induced façade.
Life can’t be bought because the government can’t even afford it.
Kudos to China for figuring that out

A joke tumbles from the lips of the self-righteous
An apology pours from the mouth of the condemned
A question slides from the tongue of the forgetful
Remember me?
I jumped because the Hermes of death seeped into my mind
Go down in flames or fall for a thousand Arabian nights
Calm before the storm chosen over
Panic during the tornado.
Take the credit, you *******, and we’ll take your lives.
Congratulations, Westboro Baptists are humming dirges
at your last bed
You’ll be missed.

Now what, you ask?
Come on home, boys,
I’ve got a country to please
Lyn-Purcell Oct 2017
Here, I glide to regions unknown.
On the tides of bliss, you are shown.
A stroke from you can calm my heart.
Forlorn and fear, depart.

How the sun is dim to your smile.
West winds blow as I dream of the Isle
For that one day, where we lock our hands
Upon the golden sands...

Writhe and roar! Sea and tempest grow!
Rise, my Dutchman! Rock to and fro!
Set the sails and man all the helms!
Our journey never ends.

Death ascends upon the throne.
As wild as he is alone.
Come to the sea, and cut through waves
Hurry to your water grave.

And my love who can't be restained.
I will vow that I'll make you pay
Drag them, bind them, take their souls
And hear the death bell toll!

For my love, I gave you my heart.
So that we will never part.
Forever you were my always.
Your curse, I won't obey.

How I've we'd meet on the lands.
Words of love have crumbled into sand.
For years, I drown with misery.
.Dead chest, safeguard my heart...
Was binge watching the PoTC franchise. It reminded me of how much I loved Davy Jones' lullaby.
Not great I know so I apologise! These are the words that come into mind
when I listen to the OST.
Link: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5fe9W1gZPUs

© Poem by Lyn-Purcell.
© Song by Hans Zimmer. Owned by Disney
Nigdaw Jun 2019
I love lighthouses;
Lonely, desolate, cold
Grown out of rocky outcrops
Designed by monolithic architects,
Where only ascetic souls can call home
Their light, a beacon in the darkness
To protect sailors from the smouldering sea,
And all her whiles and trickery
One lonely light, that shines out
Like faith, like hope, like love
So mariners will not plot a course
Into the shallow depths of death,
Book a room in Davy Jones’ Locker.
A Visceral Collection Of Thoughts: Genevieve of the Deep

24/2/15
10:52

"What if we could be like this forever?"
She asked, right before daylight broke through the window.
Her gaze fixated up on his lips
As they were draped in dawn.
He tried his hardest to answer her
Sincerely
In between yawns
"What if we were willing?" Came out from his mouth
As she anxiously read each word.
"We can't control the winds of time, no more than we can control the depths of the mind.
Just slow down so I can be with you.
The more time we spend the less we save."

She sat up, letting the sheets fall to her navel,
Tears welling up,
Her heart racing with every gulp.
She looked at him
With a glance of which to read he was unable.
"I wonder if you'll miss me as I already miss you."



20/2/15
9:59


On a train
Racing through the night
She feels as if her life is being  
Led in black and white
Monochrome
Distractions
From colourful
Would- bes
Could- bes
Maybes
And disillusions.
Glancing down at her lap
Upon it, the note from him
This is a plunge she's not ready to take
But his is a heart she's not ready to break.

On a train racing through the night
She's distraught
Between a decision concerning wrong and right
Which path to take
Whose heart to break
A union so encouraged
Yet, such a risk to take.
What would she become
If she were to take on his name?
Would her loss be soothed by potential gains?

On a train racing through
The night
Her mind wonders off to the shore outside
Her heart floats along the coast
Ready to set out with the tide

12:12

He longed for her
For reasons he knew not.
He longed for her
For reasons she knew not,
Yet he made her the most
Distraught
She had been in her whole life.
Time escaped her
As he called on her.
Her choices seemed to have been made for her.
Her family's blessing
Her hand to be given away
All for the sake of a name.

He longed for her
For reasons he knew not.
She longed for another
And sure of his feelings she was not.
Was this to be what her life was to become?
Was she to settle with someone else who wasn't the one?


25/2/15
20:00

A single rose
Awaits her
In a vase by the vanity.
She sits,
Staring into the mirror.
Three days prior
To a life changing ceremony
Built upon disparity.

A single rose
Awaits her
In a vase by the vanity.
Her thoughts flood with memories of them.
One she loved for sure
In spite of his heart being unsure
And the one who longed for her
Yet she didn't love him
And of this she was sure.

A single rose
Awaits her
In a vase by the vanity
Dripping in money, name, and social standing.
A rose from a good family,
However many thorns.
A thorn for each month of courtship,
Only 3 at that.
A whirl wind affair,
Her own private hell, dressed up as a grandiose affair.
A realisation that all families have thorns.
However, she was determined to pick and choose.
Thorns can be worth the pain if you let go of that which you hope to lose.
She knew this rose was solely meant to wilt before her eyes and she'd only have thorns.

A single rose
Awaits her in a vase by the vanity.
To her left,
From the balcony,
The ocean calls her name softly.

A single rose
Awaits her in a vase by the vanity.
Suddenly,
She gives into a rush of insanity.


13/3/15
10:11

She ran
Fleeing down the stairs
One after another.
She ran
As if all of her troubles
Were to vanish under the soles of her feet.
Knowing not where she was going
She descended down the spiral staircase.
No time for shoes,
No time for make up
No time for her hair.
She ran
Right out the door
Tired of wondering if there could be more.
She ran and ran
Until she reached the shore,
She could no longer deny the beckoning of the waves anymore.


18/2/15
12:13

Submerged,
Submerged,
Submerged.
She pulled up her dress and walked in
This wouldn't be the last of her
This wouldn't be how it ends
But somehow this wouldn't be the start of anything either
Bubbles of air escaped as she descended deeper and deeper
Visions of the past escaped
And she plunged further and further
Soon the world around her fell to hues black and of gray
As she let the world around her slip away

Submerged,
Submerged,
Submerged.
That's all she had ever been for an age.
Galaxies sprung to life and died around her.
All while Her white dress shimmered akin to the tears of those who knew her
And yet she was still submerged.
She watched as time went by
Forlonging the hand that Life held out to her
Disregarding the embrace Death longed to bestow upon her.
Frozen by her fear
Yet illuminated by her passion.
It was never the right time for her

11:10

"Waste away with me"
She awoke
At the bottom of the sea.
"Waste away with me"
Finally grasping the time she had eluded for an eternity.
She wondered how could anything have remained the same
For those above her on the shore,
For those who hadn't made such brash decisions
Leaving all they knew behind
In order to buy an ungodly amount of time.

"Waste away with me"
She was still submerged
In the arms of Davy Jones.
"Waste away with me"
Could she ever really return home?
Back to the love from which she fled,
Back to the dawn drenched sheets, the one mourning in bed, asking her honest love, one true,
If he were willing to spend a lifetime, no longer as one, but as two.

"Waste away with me"
The voice called to her again.
She rose to her feet,
Looking to the water above her.
Her eyes had never shown as bright
As they did in these depths, this night.
Pulling on her white dress at the sides
She ascended up and out to the tides.
The waves washed away beneath her bare feet in the night.
She breathed in the ocean air
High above the sea
Glancing upon the forgone lights of her city
Balling her hands into fists
As she took in the night air
Howling around her.
"Waste away with me"
The voice called out to her again
As she flew towards the shore.  


25/2/15
12:24

Soaring
Above the town
As the waves beckoned to her
Searching in the night
For the love that had escaped her.
Where would there be any trace?
How much time had passed?
Where had the years gone?

Soaring above the town
As the waves beckoned to her.
She flew as if it were something she easily knew how to do.
Her shimmering white dress fluttered
In the wind.
Her haunting, howling mane swirled around her head.
Her eyes, now blue as the seas, pierced brightly through the night,
Yet she was still unable to find,
The man
That she loved for all this time.

Soaring above the town
As the waves beckoned to her
She caught glimpse of a cemetery
And began her descent down.
A story comprised of poems I wrote in under five minutes or less.
The first love for me
It was always the sea.
Being lovingly caressed
Being slowly undressed
By the deep oceans call.
Being caught as I fall
Into Kingdoms below.
Where I flow
Into gleaming ravines
Into Davy Jones dreams.
And on the network of tides
I slide into rides
And slip into waves
Of mermaids and slaves.
I glide upon stallions
Sail in lost galleons
And float in with the breath
Of those swallowing death.
As the seafarers are pounded
As schooners are grounded.
And sink into the deep
In silence they keep
The first love for me
It was always the sea.

John Smallshaw 2011.
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2018
.and believe me, you will never get into the music of Bohren & der Club of Gore... if you weren't played a lot of classical music as a child, and having graduated from classical music, moved onto jazz music... you will simply not get this band, notably the bass fetish fest on the album Midnight Radio; how did i graduate from classical music to jazz? my GCSE English teacher, a Scot, a Mr. Bunce... THOMAS! he experimented with writing on the basis of our music, my writing partner were to explore whether "satanic" metal music induced violence... we were supposed to speak... but didn't really... first my writing partner's song choice was played, Raammstein's Rein Raus... then mine... Slayer's Spill the Blood... but then one day he brought in a jazz CD... Jazz on a Summer's Day (a compilation)... with the opening track being art barkley's moanin', sooner than later i was asking him to borrow that Ben Webster album, where you can listen to the best cover of the song: how deep is the ocean... and then came Miles Davis... i was probably the only 15 year old who listened to the message literally, and followed the advice the day after, having bought the album... he said... whoever doesn't own Miles Davis' kind of blue by the time they're 30, well... then there's something seriously wrong with them.

who would have thought...
that wes borland
could craft such atmospheric
instrumentals...
well...
     given how atmospheric
the song hold on
was on chocolate starfish
and the hotdog flavored water
,
i'm not surprised...
and almost akin to
to tom verlaine's album
around...
you take one listen
to the song jubilee
from the album crystal machete...
whatever the hell he did
with big dumb face
with that death-metal growl...
i'm happy he finally found
his strength to compose
purely instrumental music...
obviously he's not a guitar
maverick,
   in terms of showing-off
like some Van Halen or
a joe satriani...
the whole point was to craft
something akin
to the comparison with
the album kenotic (2005)
by the band hammock...
yes, great... you can pick up
the frets,
the solo *******
into excess..
but like food...
   where the balance of flavors,
and texture are important...
texture translated from
a critique of food...
into music?
       atmosphere...
the haunting lingering on...
a simple nuance,
   matched to a perfected
repetition...
what texture is in food,
atmosphere is in music...
now... i figured...
   if john frusciante could
tap into a purely instrumental
album,
  and forgot about singing...
he'd probably come out
with a Grammy's worth of
an album...
             i mean... i like his music...
but if he continues to
preserve the multitask
endeavor of singing,
and playing guitar?
    he's not prince...
                 but if wes borland
can move away from
  that... ******* that was
big dumb face...
and make something akin to
crystal machete?
then john frusciante
can pull-off a tom verlaine...
or at least work with
something akin
to davy graham's
virtuosity on the track
blue raga,
from the album
              large as life and twice
as natural
(1968).
The first love for me
It was always the sea.
Being lovingly caressed
Being slowly undressed
By the deep oceans call.
Being caught as I fall
Into Kingdoms below.
Where I flow
Into gleaming ravines
Into Davy Jones dreams.
And on the network of tides
I slide into rides
And slip into waves
Of mermaids and slaves.
I glide upon stallions
Sail in lost galleons
And float in with the breath
Of those swallowing death.
As the seafarers are pounded
As schooners are grounded.
And sink into the deep
In silence they keep
The first love for me
It was always the sea.

John Smallshaw 2011.
Tawanda Mulalu May 2015
Bathtub music and drums played on the surface
of Davy Jones's mirror: the ceramic holds
the sea, the sea, and all within it: ***** me.

Scrubbed you off my skin again for
the umpteenth night in a row. Row
row row our boat away from the constant,
constant rows. Stormy arguments and
weathered mistrust. You'll break me,
won't you? I'll break you, won't I? Won't you
come drown with me Ariel? Won't you
come up with me to the kitchen and lock up
the door then lock up the oven then lock up
ourselves in carbon-monoxide poetry?

But then how does cooking gas end up as sass
in a library? How did sustenance turn into
asphyxiation?  Why are our hands on
each other's throats instead of being binded
by the absoluteness, the certainty, the assuredness
of palms within palms and fingers interlocked
and question marks dispelled.

Splash! as way in and over my head
is the bathtub music
and my absorbent curls are
drinking, drinking, drinking, thinking
about the why you only call me when
you're drinking, drinking, drinking; thinking
about the way I cannot suppress you when
the cellphone has long gone quiet and
your Hughes of blue are still loud but
your red is dead.

Ariel, Ariel,
I want to be your dark-haired prince.
Ariel, Ariel,
my country is landlocked but I still see you in the sink.
Ariel, Ariel,

gurgling away as the bathtub music fades
into ugly brown rings around the ceramic
pause button
that shows no hope of continuation
Ariel, Ariel, you are the final splash!
as the false sea drifts away, the final splash!
that scatters bathtub music past the drain
and into the air. Ariel, Ariel,

you are the false rain
that my landlocked country never prayed for.
Ariel, Ariel, toneless, begotten and forgotten
Ariel, Ariel. I cannot sing for you. I cannot.
You will not sing for me. You will not.

The final splash! past the drain and into the air
is you Ariel. The false rain.

The rain song of our endless games.
See 'Ariel' by Sylvia Plath and 'Birthday Letters' by Ted Hughes.
Sam Temple Jan 2016
it’s a god-awful small affair
to the girl with the mousy hair
10,000 hipsters stand in the square
with ***** makeup and ****** flare
prayers fly into the dim lit sky
as a generation asks god  ‘why’
it’s a god-awful small affair
to the girl with the mousy hair
I sit here in despair
for a god of whom I did care
well, just a man with a master’s eye
for making all of the people sigh…
and now I sit here with my head in my hand
just trying to understand
what this world has come unto
can there ever again be skies of blue
and while *swishy in her satin and tat

frock coat and bipperty-bopperty hat
there can never be another like that –
the morning news brought a cold chill
as the icon of us undesirables
came to be laid at rest
it’s on America’s tortured brow
leaving us to sit solemn
as old records spin
telling tales of space men
and life on mars
a little china girl
and one man who feel to earth
it’s on America’s tortured brow
the fashionista of glam rock
the birther of Ziggy
the man who sold the world
forever changing
chameleon
in smart shoes –
spinning grooves
and scattered cd’s
tears slipping away
as memories already start to fade
it’s the freakiest show
look at those cavemen go
will they ever know
just who left us
take a look at the lawman
beating up the wrong guy
it’s a god-awful small affair
to the girls with the mousy hair
now she walks with a sunken dream
and the cream that once rose so high
so too will come the time to die
and as all of us let him go
there can be a bit of hope for those
who carry a torchy flare
to the girl with the mousy hair
and will sing in the dead of night
with face paint and a big spot light
******* and the party boys
come out with their fancy toys
but it’s a god-awful small affair
if you find you’re too square to care
‘bout the goblin kings sad depart
from this earth and from hipster hearts
see these kids have no loyalty
to a man who helped define me
when the world gave me a frown
for kissing boys in a dainty gown
ole Davy gave me peace
with a confidence that never ceased
oh Mr. Jones I’m in debt to you
for turning my grey skies to blue
now I’ll forever carry this torch
from green valleys to my own front porch
but it’s a god-awful small affair
it’s nice to know some of us care…
about the earth and sun and stars
and yes
there is life
on
     Mars –
italic lines are David's
Aodhán Corr Jan 2014
Washed up on the sandy beach
amidst the summer rain,
The mighty king of the Pacific
lay in persecuting pain.
The creature wailed with ***** prowess,
but his health was soon to wane,
And by the morning that came after,
sovereign was reduced to stain.

Vultures from the distance
ripped apart his tender flesh
With spit to sear his wounded majesty
and claws to tear and thresh.
The wicked gang of savage butchers
in a loathsome, boorish mesh
Would make a swollen, seething carcass
of our one-time Venkatesh.

Three days after passing,
fallen Caesar, set to rise,
Was then revoked his Heaven’s passage,
and left wallowed in demise:
A body plagued by every virus;
swarmed by avaricious flies,
Stranded, rotting, in the Earth realm,
‘stead of claiming his due prize.

Hurricanes, October,
brought the wrath of Davy Jones
To wreak an evil-minded havoc
and to thrive on victim moans,
And dash the Herculean skeleton
upon the crags and stones
To rain on thousands with the splinters
of his elephantine bones.
Aidan Corr Olsen (c) 2014
Mateuš Conrad May 2016
ah... the sparrow is such a beautiful bird, a mandarin bird, only the pope's Samael, the robin, could box the sparrow ugly - i.e. the robin always visits the pope's windowsill to tell him of immanent death.

i never understood why rhetoric (that persuasive art)
should exist outside a courtroom
and in the chamber of the commons - in parliament,
but then you read the law supplement on a thursday
and entertain such facts that:
a. Abe Lincoln was a former lawyer
b. Richie Nixon, also a former lawyer
c. Davy Lollipop George was a solicitor
d. Maggie Stitch-Me-Up Fatty Chi a barrister...
(e. well Tonne Blair was a barrister too)...
it seems natural to them, these peeps export rhetoric
from the one effective "safe space" where rhetoric
matters, adversary and defence,
i don't know why they export rhetoric from
Nepal and throw it into the cauldron of
politics that's Iraq... that's when their conscience
suddenly disappears, magic... abracadabra
and there's Houdini choking when his stomach
was punched in... rhetoric, i believe is best used
to spare lives, like the case of the defence lawyer
Clarence Darrow, the jury found the
African translated into American *not guilty

after he fired a shot at a mob of the Ku Klux ****
inspired mob on his premises...
now that's a truthful utility of rhetoric -
but take a lawyer out of a courtroom and shove
him into the sausage parlour of other
missing ******* condoms, and you have rhetoric
of a different nature... not to spare lives,
but to sacrifice them, like the plea of Hortensia
in 42 BC... incitement to war... many shady investors
in the background... i'm not saying lawyers are bad
people... i'm saying they're no longer people
once they become politico-lawyers... they become
investment brokers for the economics of arms trade...
they suddenly become zombie-like self-mutilating
cannibals... they come in with a brown crop of hair,
they leave their office of power like gorilla silver-backs,
having attired themselves in false-grey wisdom...
Tony and Obama sitting in a tree,
one said Iraq, the other said Arabia in a shopping spree,
well, -ing, numb that ****** ending, i.e. spring.
Tony and Obama sitting in a tree, the latter got
a Nobel peace prize, the former got diplomatic immunity.
so yeah, free speech... not offending people...
i got there just in time, and got out just in time too...
safe-spaces... i can just see the protesting lining up
like blonde ****** wives of billionaires for silicon
implants to live it out in the valley... coyote ug-...
something or other, Satan's Clause: sit on my lee e e lease!
that's how rhetoric becomes a migrating bird, a stork,
summers in Poland and the myth of the European bison,
winters in former Hittite territory or Pharaoh land...
it's dangerous exporting rhetoric from its intended
confinement of the courtroom, and importing it into
a parliamentary chamber, whichever, house of lords
or house of commons... rhetoric exported into a political
realm becomes less a saviour and more a guillotine,
as in: in a courtroom the judge presides with cool calm
precision that people do not step out of line...
but in the political realm Mr. Speaker just jokes about
hushing the banter of insults exchanged by two parties...
the lost privy, and the dirt and smudge of faeces
where once such men would paint their faces with blue woad.
Frisk Jun 2014
watching myself being lit like chinese firecrackers
into the sky for you isn't something worth fixing
these third degree burns. you watched without
mercy the hairs on my arms crawl away from
the flames and my skin fall apart. if it was a test
of your trust in me, then i watched myself crumble
and rebuild myself into a dust sculpture of someone
you would have desired. YOU BECAME AN OCEAN
WITH HIGH AND LOW TIDES AT RANDOM INTERVALS
AND I'VE CAUGHT MYSELF CHOKING ON YOU
ENOUGH TIMES TO COMPLETELY STOP STEPPING
FOOT INTO YOUR TERRITORY. I GOT SWEPT INTO
DAVY JONES LOCKER, LOCKED INSIDE, AND PRIED
MYSELF OUT MORE THAN ENOUGH TIMES TO
FASHION WEAPONS AND BE PREPARED FOR WHEN
YOU FINALLY ENGULF ME. I WAS PANICKY THE FIRST
AND SECOND AND THIRD AND FORTH TIME, BUT
NEVER AGAIN WILL I PANIC BEING HELD HOSTAGE
BY YOU BECAUSE I WILL BE READY. YOU TRIED TO
FOOL ME WITH THE MAZES IN DAVY'S LOCKER BUT
I MANAGED A WAY OUT. YOU KNOW, I AM NOT A
CHARITY CASE, SOMEONE YOU GO TO ONLY BECAUSE
YOU ARE TRYING TO BE A GOOD PERSON AND
APOLOGIZE FOR BEING IGNORANT OF ME ONLY
BECAUSE YOU LITTER ME LIKE TRASH ON THE DIRT
COATED GROUND YOU WALK ON. IT DOES NOT WORK
THAT WAY UNLESS YOU KNEW HOW DRIFTING ALONE
FEELS. i still drift alone, trying to forget you, trying to stop
dreaming about each moment your tides swept their way
onto my shore and shriveled up when i grazed against you.

- kra
Lilith Meredith Jun 2013
swimming more like
flailing
floating idly sometimes
drowning
drag me down
down down down
davy, drag me down
Does this really matter anymore,
coming from a passionless former *****.

I speak from the depths of me,
a broken ship cast out to a stormy blue sea.

Holes in my bilge  overflowing,
and my sail is barely even showing.

Engulfed by dark  salty  waters,
sharing  space in Davy's  locker with my forefathers.
This an analogy of my love, and how it is venturing on a broken ship, not valued because it has no value for itself. But I'm changing my self so one day I will cast out to sea in a nice boat.

— The End —